


Prison Grove

by izazov



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Longing, M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izazov/pseuds/izazov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki crosses another line. Thor does not react as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prison Grove

Loki heard the steps – heavy, but not as sure as they usually were; though the hesitation was almost imperceptible, nonetheless it was there – long before Thor entered his field of vision, halting his steps a mere step from the shimmering barrier.

Loki remained sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, his right leg bent at the knee and folded under his left one. He toyed with the idea of rising to his feet, if for no other reason than to be on the same eye level with Thor, disregarding it in the end. He simply could not summon enough energy to put on a show just yet.

A moment passed in silence. A moment in which Loki eyed the lines of worry on Thor’s forehead that were not there the last time they saw each other, fairly certain he was the main cause of their existence. But they were not the only tell-tale sign of Loki’s imminent fate. Along with dark circles under Thor’s eyes and the grim expression on his face, they spelled only one thing.

Death.

It was precisely what Loki has been expecting these past five days while staring at the energy barrier that barred his way to freedom. Even Thor, as annoyingly, even foolishly, persistent as he was, could not save him from death this time.

Loki knew the rules before he went ahead and broke them all. There was only so much acts of treason a person could commit and live to tell the tale.

And Loki has finally committed one treason too many.

But even with knowing the outcome beforehand, Loki could feel a tiny spark of hope flicker and fade in the hollow of his chest.

“I must say you are a far less generous host than Odin had been.” Loki drawled, grinning. It was false bravado and it had no effect on Thor, but even a hollow comfort was triumph when you had been stripped of everything else. “You could have at least provided me with a chair.” 

“You could have asked for one.” Thor remarked, flatly.

“Fair point, that. I should have thought of it myself.” Loki acknowledged, his grin softening into a small smile. _That_ did draw a reaction from Thor – a fleeting flash of confusion in the otherwise grave countenance. “But I suppose you are not here to discuss the comforts of my current accommodation.”

“No, I am not.”

Loki barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the gloomy tone of Thor’s voice. A few years ago, Thor’s obvious misery would have been a source of infinite glee. Now it brought nothing but exasperation at Thor’s blind stubbornness. They were no longer enemies, but they were never brothers. A fact Thor could not seem to accept, idiotically clinging to the past that was no more than lies and illusion.

Sighing, Loki rose to his feet, a crooked half-smile playing on his lips.

“Then I suppose you are here to inform me of the date of my trial.”

“There will be no trial.”

Smile slid from Loki’s face as he processed the meaning behind Thor’s revelation. He had been expecting death sentence, but this development had caught him by surprise. Rather unpleasant one.

He folded his hands behind his back and tilted his head to the side, studying Thor’s expression with growing unease. It was evident from the weariness on Thor’s face he had tried and failed to intervene on Loki’s behalf. Foolish, but expected. And not the cause of the tiny flutter of fear low in in Loki’s belly. That honour belonged to the steely resolve that was growing more prominent in Thor’s expression with each passing moment.

Loki did not wish for death, but he knew it to be a very real possibility considering his recent exploits. Only a small comfort laid in the fact that there were worse fates than death.

“No trial?” Loki queried, unable to mask a slight hitch in his voice. “That seems a bit drastic. You could have at least staged a symbolic one. It would have given my death much needed catharsis.”

Thor’s eyes narrowed minutely, the first sign of his temper flaring, but he remained silent.

Loki, however, felt no desire for silence. Soon enough, his voice would be forever silenced.

“So will the execution be performed here, or on Vanaheim? I only ask-”

“Loki, that is enough.” Thor’s voice came out loud and harsh, but nowhere near reaching the level of anger Loki knew him capable of. His features contorted into a pained grimace for one fleeting moment before smoothing over into a resolute mask. Absurdly, something akin to regret tightened Loki’s chest for a fraction of a second. “I have not come here to trade barbs with you.”

It was almost comical how many times they have been in this precise situation – Thor trying to rein in his temper and steer the conversation away from dangerous waters, and Loki doing his utmost to drag them there.

He _could_ do so now. A few well-chosen words, and the silence in this private part of the dungeons would dissolve into a shouting match; their very last one. Accusations and anger and resentment, bitter poison that was still simmering far too close to the surface, despite the last few years of relative peace between them.

Loki could do it, but – for some idiotically sentimental reason he would rather not examine further; or better yet, not to suffer from it in the first place – the idea of their last encounter turning into yet another battle with no clear victor did not agree with him.

Aside from that first time, clarity of imminent death, it seemed, had this unfortunate side-effect of turning his brain to mush.

“Then why have you come?” Loki asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper, and void of everything save honest curiosity.

A frown creased Thor’s brow; his mouth parting, then closing, without saying a word; his eyes resting on Loki’s as if searching for a hidden trap. Loki felt a smile tug the corners of his lips up, but did not allow it to fully form. It was amusing, though. And well inside the realm of idiocy. That Thor would not give up on him, even when he did not trust him.

A curious little discrepancy in the otherwise straightforward mind.

Blinking away confusion from his face, Thor squared his shoulders and stepped forward. It lasted a sliver of a moment, but in that short space of time Loki was certain Thor’s intention was to shut down the barrier and enter his cell. He was less certain of his feelings on the matter; a bigger part of him wanted no such thing – unnecessary complication, with potential for disaster – but there was also that smaller, foolish part of him that still recalled the times when the possibility of Thor’s hands on him left his skin tingling with anticipation. 

But gone were the times when Loki could predict Thor’s intentions with ease. It was the source of immense frustration for Loki when they were still enemies, nowadays it left only a faint wistful echo in that hollow space beneath his breastbone. 

Thor halted mere inches away from the barrier, his hands balled into fists by his sides, and his expression an almost comical blend of resolve and uncertainty.

“I have come to say goodbye.” Thor’s voice was soft, but steady, laced with enough regret and sorrow to disperse even the last lingering notion Loki still had about coming relatively unscathed out of his current predicament.

Swallowing, Loki forced his lips into a strained smile.

“There is an alternative to that.” Loki remarked lightly, only the faintest hitch in his voice hinting at the sinking feeling of dread concentrated low in his belly. “You could bring down this barrier and close your eyes for a few moments.”

The corners of Thor’s lips twitched faintly, his gaze softening affectionately. “I wish I could do that.”

Loki believed him. Thought him a fool for it, but believed his words. He opened his mouth, having no qualms about sharing that particular conclusion with Thor, but before he could utter a single word, Thor pounded his fist against the barrier. It buzzed and flared brightly, but nowhere near matching the sudden desperate fury blazing to life in Thor’s eyes.

More out of surprise than anything else, Loki took a step back, his eyes widening at Thor’s unexpected outburst.

“Damn you, Loki.” Thor growled, looking furious and pained all at once; like he could not decide whether to throttle Loki, or crumple to the ground in tears. “Why have you done it? Why couldn’t you have lived in peace this time? Are you so thirsty for power? Even at the expense of your life?”

Loki sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. Those were all valid questions. Naturally, he had no intention of answering them; even if he suspected Thor was merely venting his frustration, rather than actually expecting answers.

“What is it you wish to hear, Thor? Remorse? Pleading?” Loki said, squaring Thor with a level gaze. “I will offer you neither. My fate is sealed as it is.”

“By your own damned actions!”

“And why not?” Loki snarled, baring his teeth, his previous intent of keeping the tone of this conversation civil overruled by the pounding beat of his heart. “My life was no more than a loose thread in Odin’s schemes, should my death also belong to someone else?” 

A noise of helpless fury tore from Thor’s throat. “You have named me a fool more times than I care to remember, and you are the biggest fool I have ever met. Has it not occurred to you to cease taunting death with pointless schemes and treachery, and try to build a life for yourself?”

Loki’s vision turned red, his thoughts reduced to no more than white noise, and his throat filling with bile. He could not hazard a guess as to how long he had been standing there, paralyzed with fury, blind and deaf to everything save the blood rushing wildly through his veins, but when his vision had finally cleared, and he had gathered a semblance of control over his muddled thoughts; a dozen poisonous insults ready on the tip of his tongue, Loki found himself unable to utter even one.

With his shoulders hunched, and a vacant gaze, Thor looked… defeated; all his fury and determination stripped away, leaving behind a man who was only now starting to realize the depth of his loss.

Loki felt a surge of hysterical laughter building inside his throat. It was profoundly unfair that after all the long years of actively attempting to bring Thor to his knees, to be the cause of exactly this expression on his face, Loki had managed to do so now – inadvertently, and at a great personal cost.

And the worst of all? He could not find even a sliver of enjoyment in it.

The moment of silence grew into another, and then another, until it became an oppressive, stifling presence in the space between them; its invisible weight settling heavily upon Loki’s chest.

“You should not have come.” Loki said finally, voice hollow and flat.

The stretch of Thor’s lips could not be considered a smile even in the loosest sense of the word. “It has been a long time since you and I have agreed on anything.”

A sound that could have been named a chuckle as easily as it could have been named a snort tore from Loki’s mouth with disturbing ease. Not surprising, though. For centuries they have laughed in each other’s company. For centuries they have made each other laugh.

Swallowing heavily, Loki straightened his shoulders. His chest felt small, far too small for his lungs to expand and draw air. Far too small for him to _breathe_. This pointless conversation has already lasted too long, and it needed to end. Preferably while Loki still had somewhat of a reign over his voice and emotions. He had already forfeited everything, soon even his life, he could at least keep what little was left of his dignity. 

“Then we must also agree that you should leave. Now. And never come back.” 

Thor’s face crumpled further, his eyes drifting shut. When Thor opened them a moment later, they were glistening with unshed tears.

“I have never wished you dead, Loki.”

Loki swallowed a howl of frustration, his nails digging bloody grooves inside the flesh of his palms. He wished – fiercely, helplessly – for his magic, or his daggers, or just about anything he could use to stop Thor from speaking further. But he had nothing in this damned cell, _nothing_.

Only that was not quite the truth, Loki realized a moment later with a surge of relief that was so potent it skirted the edges of manic glee. He still had himself; he still had his words. To mould them to suit his purpose.

Even if that purpose was something almost obnoxiously sentimental. 

Inhaling deeply, Loki felt a momentary calm wash over him in waves; taking away some of the pressure from his chest and giving his lungs a temporary reprieve.

“You have always been almost idiotically honourable, Thor.” The words have left Loki’s mouth in a long, weary sigh; utterly lacking malice, mostly amused, even fond. In any case, they were not what Thor had been expecting. The sad animal gaze he had been sporting now shifted into something sharper, caution-like. “But you need not bother. You owe me nothing. There is nothing I wish from you. Whatever responsibility you feel towards me is unfounded as much as it is unwanted.”

“Responsibility?” Thor repeated, frowning, as if the meaning of the word was something foreign to him. A mere heartbeat later, the confusion cleared from his gaze, turning into disbelief. Thor shook his head, his face drawn into an expression of helpless frustration. “You think— you truly are a fool.”

There was something else beneath the surface of Thor’s expression. Something that tugged at Loki’s heartstrings, like an echo of long forgotten times. Whatever it was, it called to Loki. Almost as much as it frightened him. And Thor stood so close, barely two steps away; his face open and unguarded. If not for the barrier, Loki could even—

Loki snatched back his half-raised hand away from the barrier and took a staggering step back, turning sharply. He sucked in a sharp breath, gazing in horror at his trembling hand. Almost. He had almost made an unforgivable error and an utter fool of himself.

“Loki–”

Thor’s voice barely rose above a whisper, but to Loki it sounded like crashing of thunder. He had balled his hand into fist to stop it from trembling, but the tremor spread, threatening to turn into a full-bodied shudder. Anger and shame were spreading like wildfire inside his chest, but Loki still possessed enough presence of mind to know he needed to make Thor leave before it occurred to him to enter Loki’s cell.

The possibility of Thor’s invasive presence here, inside this small place, with nowhere to hide and with his emotions running wild and unpredictable, chilled Loki down to his core. But it also calmed his frayed nerves, giving him enough self-control to school his features into an impassive mask and turn around.

And do it not a moment too soon.

Thor had moved while Loki had his back turned and was now standing to the far left of Loki’s cell, his right hand hovering indecisively over a panel Loki could not see from his position. He knew it was there, though.

“Thor.” Loki called, fighting back a surge of panic, the steadiness of his voice surprising even himself. Thor snapped his gaze away from the panel and toward Loki, his eyes open windows into a maelstrom of emotions, all of which Loki ignored. Let Thor deal with them, far away from here, in which way he sees fit, and leave Loki to wait the inevitable in peace. “I do have one request to ask of you.”

Thor’s brow creased and his eyes narrowed fractionally, but his hand did not move from its raised position. He hesitated a moment, his gaze flicking briefly back to the panel, forcing Loki to grit his teeth together in an effort of holding himself in check.

Finally, _finally_ , when Loki was starting to despair, certain his teeth would crack under pressure at any moment, Thor straightened his shoulders and lowered his hand.

“Speak.” Thor said, steady and level, even if his gaze still spoke of inner turmoil. Loki did not hear that tone of voice often from Thor; he supposed it was his formal tone. The one he used as king of Asgard.

“If I am to die soon, allow me this one last request. Leave.” Thor seemed frozen for a moment, staring at Loki unblinkingly. Loki knew it would not last. Thor would snap out of it soon, ready to argue and demand. Only the beginning of a well know game that ultimately ended with them at each other throats, spitting venom and accusations at each other’s faces. Normally, it was not something Loki would shy away from. But not like this – as a helpless prisoner, backed in a corner with no manner of an escape, and with his emotions in disarray. “Say what you claim you have come to say, and leave.”

A moment passed in silence, but Loki could see storm building inside Thor’s eyes, erasing all traces of uncertainty and weakness, the familiar unwavering resolve taking their place.

Which is why Loki was prepared for everything save what actually occurred – Thor squaring his shoulders, and, with one last long look, turning sharply and disappearing from view in a whirl of red.

Leaving Loki to stare dumbfounded after him, trying to convince himself that the feeling slowly filling his chest, growing stronger with each intake of breath, was _relief_. 

It was later – much, _much_ later – when Loki finally realized that Thor had left without saying the very thing he had come to say.

 

****

 

By Loki’s account, they came for him five days after Thor’s visit. Give or take a couple of hours.

That came as no small surprise. From Loki’s personal experience, in the interest of avoiding unnecessary complications, matters of delicate political nature such as this one were almost always handled with urgency. Once all interested parties were in agreement on the outcome, of course.

With nothing particular to do in the solace of his cell, Loki had been entertaining the possibility of Thor making another foolish attempt at intervening on his behalf in the past five days, but only as a minuscule possibility. Loki might enjoy calling him thus, but Thor was not a fool. He would not endanger peace within the Nine Realms because of Loki. More so considering Loki _had_ been the instigator of the recent political turmoil in Freya’s court.

Though the delay in Loki’s execution was certainly unexpected, even more surprising was the nature of Loki’s entourage – Sif and one lone Einherjar, whose face Loki could not recall seeing before today, when he came in Sif’s tow, solemn and resolute.

“Did you volunteer for this duty, Sif?” Loki drawled, his voice mockingly sweet. Sif’s face remained a stony, expressionless mask, the contempt she felt for Loki evident only in the tight press of her lips. “Or did Thor think I need special attention on this fine day?” 

Loki made no attempt to move from his current position, but remained seated on the ground, his back leaning against the wall and his legs crossed at the ankles. The hard floor of a cell in Asgard, only marginally made more comfortable by Loki’s own coat, was among the less enjoyable places Loki had to content himself with, but it was certainly not the worst. Still, Loki would have preferred that Thor had sacrificed a moment of his precious time, and issued a command to one of the hundreds Einherjar to bring him a chair. Surely the palace’s safety would not suffer in those few moments.

Sif ignored Loki’s words, fixing Loki with a hard stare. “Get up.” She commanded, then proceeded to busy herself with the commands on the panel on the outside of Loki’s cell. A moment later, the barrier flickered briefly, then faded with a low hum.

Loki grinned up at Sif, all teeth and insolence, then gazed briefly at the twin silver rings on his wrists. His present situation was clear – no magic, no weapon, no help. He could attempt to subdue the guard, but that would most likely end with Sif standing over him, while he writhed on the ground in pain.

When Loki returned his gaze back up at Sif, there was a small flicker in her eyes, almost as if she knew what he was thinking and was now daring him to try.

Loki let out a low chuckle and rose to his feet. If she wanted an excuse to hurt him, he certainly would not be as generous to actually comply. All their lives, since the moment Thor, grinning stupidly, had dragged Loki to meet an awkward, but beautiful girl, with dreams of becoming a warrior, they have always pushed at each other. With words first, then later, in the training grounds, with fists and weapons. Loki saw no reason to break that tradition simply on the account of his imminent death.

“I am up. Now what?”

Sif remained unimpressed with Loki’s, admittedly pitiful, attempts at rousing her temper, snatching Loki by his upper arm, and pushing him forward none too gently.

“Walk. Preferably in silence.”

“As my Lady wishes.” Loki said with an exaggerated bow. That only earned him another push, and a warning glare.

“A moment please.” Loki said, glancing at his discarded coat, still folded neatly on the ground next to the wall. “If I could-”

“You won’t need it.”

Loki knew it to be true. Even the shine and wealth of his most expensive ceremonial armour would not earn him an ounce of respect from any of Asgard’s citizens. That hardly meant Loki wanted to parade in front of them in nothing save a light tunic and leather pants.

Ignoring the dark look on Sif’s face, Loki turned to fetch his coat. He made only one step before Sif’s voice – hard as steel – stopped him.

“I have the king’s permission to use any means I deem necessary to escort you to your destination.” Sif remarked flatly.

“Destination?” Loki repeated, arching one mocking eyebrow. “How unusually diplomatic of you, Sif. You used to be much more direct in the past.” Pausing, Loki leered at her. “Is that how you serve your king? _Diplomacy_?”

Sif’s eyes flashed with fury, her hand flying to the handle of her sword. The air between them grew heated, centuries of animosity blazing to life in the small space between their bodies.

Loki waited, his lips stretching into a smug grin, a surge of excitement creeping along his spine at the thought of Thor’s expression when Sif presented Loki to him bruised and battered.

Slowly, Sif loosened her hold on the hilt of her sword, allowing her hand to fall at her side.

“Serve? What do you know about duty or honour?” Sif said, the blaze of fury in her eyes dulling into a cold look of contempt. Holding his gaze levelly, she stepped closer to Loki, lowering her voice into a whisper, low and soft, but cutting like a knife. “Nothing. Were it not so, you would still be walking these halls as a prince, not a bound criminal.”

A burn of outrage and fury rose high on Loki’s cheeks, constricting his throat and robbing him of voice.

“Now, move.” Sif commanded coolly, taking a step to the side and allowing Loki to pass.

Gritting his teeth with impotent anger, Loki complied wordlessly.

Loki moved in a daze. He followed blindly after the guard, with Sif walking a step behind him. They were moving in a brusque pace, their steps echoing loudly off the stone walls.

Sif’s words were still ringing mockingly inside his head, leaving a bitter taste of humiliation and defeat inside his mouth; their insistent buzz distracting Loki from all else. Even the thoughts of his impending execution.

And his surroundings.

Embarrassingly, it was only Sif’s hold on his elbow what prevented Loki from crashing into the guard when he abruptly halted his steps at the intersection of two corridors – one leading out of the dungeon complex, and the other leading into the old section of the palace.

Loki blinked, frowned. His thoughts were still muddled and sluggish, but the noise inside his head was losing volume, until it became no more than a faint whisper, easy to ignore.

The guard was standing in front of Loki, but he paid him no heed; his questioning eyes were resting on Sif alone.

Sif threw a quick glance at Loki, a grimace of distaste contorting her features for a fraction of a moment. Curiosity, followed closely by suspicion, was rapidly gaining ground at the forefront of Loki’s thoughts. This entire situation seemed far too clandestine for a simple escort of a prisoner to the place of his execution.

Even if that prisoner was Loki.

“I will handle the prisoner from here on.” Sif said, her hold on Loki’s elbow tightening a fraction. Loki’s frown deepened, his attention now fully focused on what was occurring. His gaze alternated between Sif’s and guard’s faces. Predictably, it was not much different from asking for answers from a stone. “You are dismissed.”

The guard nodded his salute to Sif before taking his leave, his steps echoing long after he disappeared from view, taking the corridor that led out of the dungeons and up the main hall.

“If I did not know better, I would think you were helping me escape.” Loki remarked casually, glancing at Sif from the corner of his eye. The subsequent scowl on Sif’s face was a reward in itself.

“If you do not hold your tongue, I will deem it necessary to knock you unconscious and drag you along.” Sif said in a low voice, puling Loki by the elbow in the direction opposite from the one the guard took.

Loki grinned widely, but kept his silence, allowing Sif to drag him along without any resistance; his mind working furiously but finding not one answer to the many questions he had. Considering everything, Loki’s was not a position that called for much concern about future, but nothing about this seemed open and straightforward as it should have been. Loki’s culpability was not an issue; the list of his sins long and grave enough to render even a semblance of a trial an unnecessary formality. What remained was the simple matter of Loki’s execution, so why in Hel’s name was he being dragged through the winding corridors of the restricted part of the palace? 

Three was only one certainty in all this – it was all done on Thor’s orders. But what exactly Thor was trying to achieve, remained frustratingly elusive.

As they entered further into the old section of the palace, the air grew stale as the corridors narrowed, and marble and gold that adorned the rest of the palace were substituted with wood and stone. Loki enjoyed wandering these corridors in his youth. While the rest of the palace stood a shining testament to Asgard’s power and wealth, _this_ was a maze of secret passages and hidden rooms, where the stone still remained stained with dark-red blotches of blood of enemies Asgard had long since forgotten.

In his childhood, Loki had feared entering these halls almost as much as he felt himself being drawn by them; the promise of mystery and secrets waiting to be uncovered a siren’s call Loki could never ignore. He could still recall the first time he led Thor through the secret passageways that connected the two sections of the palace – the wide-eyed awe in Thor’s eyes, the curve of his smile and the too-tight grip of his fingers around Loki’s wrist.

There were other, far less innocent memories Loki had of these stone halls and Thor – the warmth of Thor’s breath on his lips, the scrape of Thor’s teeth against his collarbone and the bright-hot pleasure of having Thor move deep inside him.

But those memories were now inconsequential, though taxing in their insistence to creep up at Loki at the least opportune moments, leaving a faint, hollow ache in their wake.

Steering his thoughts away from sentimental idiocy and into far more sensible direction, Loki took a closer look of his current surroundings. He knew these halls and their secrets, and, presumably, Sif did not. If he could, just for a moment, escape her hold, then he could-

Sif’s grip on Loki’s elbow turned from firm to near-bruising, the challenging glint in her eyes a clear warning.

Loki’s mouth twitched, an echo of a smile forming on his lips, followed closely by a deep sigh. It was a farfetched notion to begin with. Even if he could somehow escape Sif, he could not leave Asgard, just as he could not take off these damnable cuffs of his wrists. Not without aid. And there was not a single soul here who would offer it. The one person who came even remotely close was Thor. The bitter irony of that truth was not lost on Loki.

The rest of the journey passed without an incident; Sif steering them expertly through the maze of corridors, then up the winding stairway which led to the middle of three towers. 

Once there, Sif continued walking and, subsequently, dragging Loki along until they were standing in front of massive wooden doors, with steel hinges and a bronze bolt the size of a human head.

Loki frowned, a feeling not unlike panic coiling low in his belly; making his heart speed its rhythm and turning his breathing shallow.

More out of instinct than following a fully-formed thought, Loki attempted to take a step back; in that moment of folly forgetting all about Sif and her restraining grip.

Using the hold she had on Loki’s elbow, Sif spun him around, slamming him hard against the wooden door.

The impact forced the air out of Loki’s lungs, making him see dots for a few short moments. Once his vision cleared, he found himself staring at Sif’s furious eyes and straining for air as Sif’s forearm pressed hard against his windpipe.

It could not have lasted longer than a few quick beats of Loki’s heart, but in that time Loki was certain there would be no public, nor secret execution; he would die here, helplessly gasping for breath, until Sif pressed just enough and crushed his windpipe into fine powder.

Panic bloomed inside his chest, and Loki started struggling for real. But he could not do much with only one free hand – Sif still held his other hand in a vise tight grip – and no magic at his disposal, while his thoughts were paralyzed with rapidly growing dread.

Loki’s vision was turning blurry, his desperate, panicked struggle gaining him nothing, when Sif pulled his hand away and stepped back abruptly, as if Loki’s skin burned.

Loki’s hand flew up to his sore neck as he doubled over, taking deep, greedy gulps of air. Moments passed, with nothing but Loki’s harsh breathing disturbing the silence. Slowly, his breathing calmed and his thoughts cleared; only a weak tremor of his fingers remained as a testament of what occurred only moments prior.

When Loki straightened, still rubbing his aching throat, he was met by Sif’s eyes, the look in them surpassing mere animosity, taking shape of something fiercer, and more intimate. Something that looked very much like hate.

“You are a curse upon this realm and everyone in it.” She hissed, low and heated. Loki blinked slowly, startled by the depth of emotion in her voice. It seemed pointless, now, when Loki’s last moments of life were ticking away. “Everything you touch, you taint with your poison. And still he-”

The creak of steel hinges interrupted Sif’s speech, drawing both their gazes toward the blond head that peeked through half-opened door.

Fandral’s gaze flicked from Sif to Loki, who still had his fingers pressed against his throat, then back to Sif.

“Volstagg owes me a bottle of wine.” Fandral remarked wryly. “He was certain Loki would sport more than just one bruise upon your arrival.”

Sif’s only response was an unamused glare. Then, before Loki could even think about something foolish as escaping, or even opening his mouth, Sif had once again claimed possession of Loki’s elbow, pulling him forward.

Fandral pulled open the door entirely and stepped to the side, allowing them entrance.

“If you actually claim the spoils of that wager, Fandral, you will regret it.” Sif remarked in passing, without even glancing at Fandral.

Loki allowed himself a short glance, dragging his feet slowly along the stone floor, just in time to see Fandral closing the door, his lips drawn into a shadow of his usual rakish grin. They eyes met briefly. Unexpectedly, Fandral was the first to look away, but not before Loki saw a flash of apprehension in Fandral’s gaze.

Nothing made sense about any of this; and Loki loathed the feelings of uncertainty and helplessness it caused. He was in no hurry to die, but he was prepared for it, prepared to meet it with calm dignity. He was not prepared for this game of cat and mouse. Not with him playing the part of the mouse.

“Here he is.” Sif announced sharply, pushing Loki none too gently toward the middle of the round room. It was only by virtue of years and years of training that Loki did not stumble. Grimacing, Loki pressed his lips together, swallowing a scathing remark in favour of stealing a quick glance of his surrounding, but finding nothing but bare stone. “I have done my duty. What happens next is no longer my concern. I want no part in it.”

With those cryptic words, Sif turned on her heel, and stalked out of the room; the loud bang of door closing behind her echoing ominously.

Blinking against the sharp light pouring from the sole, round window, located on the far side of the room, Loki focused his attention on those present in the room. First there was Volstagg; standing by the window and doing a poor imitation of calm composure, his fingers nervously twitching around the handle of his axe. Hogun, ever grim and stoic, stood protectively next to the last, and certainly most unexpected, person in the room – Eir, who, despite the faint paleness to her cheeks, held Loki’s gaze unflinchingly.

Loki’s inquiring gaze slid briefly to the only object present in the room – a large stone altar, with ancient runes carved into its surface. Loki has seen these runes only a small number of times; written on sheets of paper the passage of time has rendered completely useless; thin and fragile, crumbling into dust under even the softest of touches. 

More familiar were the dark brown stains, smeared across the flat surface of the altar. Loki’s mouth twitched, forming a ghost of a smile. Well. Who would have thought? It seemed Thor was in possession of more imagination than Loki ever thought him capable. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this was Freya’s doing, and Thor-

Smile slipped from Loki’s lips as he tore his gaze away from the altar, his stomach twisting with anger and dread alike. 

“Where is Thor?” Loki demanded of no one in particular. His breathing turned shallow as his entire body grew tense. Each of his expectations of how his execution would play out had been rendered null and void, but if there was one truth Loki would wager his life on – if it were still his own to barter with – it was the certainty of Thor’s presence at his execution.

“Where is he?” Loki tried again when he received no answer; his voice coming out shrill and sharp with rising panic. He made a step back, his gaze frantically searching for safety as his mind worked furiously. A sole thought crystallized inside his mind – time, he needed more of it. For surely, Thor was on his way here. Perhaps accompanied by someone of Freya’s court. Or even Freya herself.

Inhaling deeply, Loki attempted to force a semblance of control over his thoughts but had little success in stopping them from rapidly deteriorating into chaos of panic and desperation. Still, he had enough presence of mind to recognize that the most ridiculous thing about all this was not the actual fact of him experiencing what appeared to be a panic attack, but that he knew not what stood at its core. And it was not some misplaced hope of Thor granting him pardon at the last moment. He simply wanted Thor to be here. _Needed_ him to be present when he drew his last breath. 

Hogun exchanged a quick look with Fandral over Loki’s shoulder. Then he took a careful step forward, his eyes not moving an inch from Loki’s.

“Volstagg.” He said, low and steady. Nothing more, just his name, but Volstagg seemed to understand. A small grimace passed over his features as he lowered his axe down on the floor, leaning it against the stone wall.

“Norns help me, but I will need so much mead tonight.” Volstagg grumbled under his breath, looking at Loki with a mixture of accusation and growing resolve.

Loki’s heart was hammering inside his chest as he slowly backed away from them, and toward the fragile safety of having the wall shield his back. The little that was said since Sif had delivered him here was nonsensical at best, shedding not a glimmer of light upon the mystery of today’s proceedings. Though, Loki suspected, words were not of import in that moment.

The futility of his actions was clear to Loki, even as he continued backing away, until his back met the wall, his entire body tense and battle-ready. He stood no chance against combined strength of three seasoned warriors, even if they opted to face him unarmed. Not without aid of magic, and backed in a corner.

But he had nothing to lose, and no more patience for docility.

The scuffle that ensued was embarrassingly brief; it ended with Loki on his back on the altar, hissing his rage, and twisting frantically in the combined grips of Volstagg, Hogun and Fandral. The purpling bruise on Volstagg’s face and Fandral’s split lip were a hollow comfort in the light of what Loki knew was about to happen.

“Now would be a good time,” Fandral said in a strained voice, addressing Eir who had backed away from the scuffle, finding shelter near the window. “To finish our appointed task.”

A snarl of rage tore from Loki’s mouth, the burn of it eclipsing even the cold weight of fear, settled low in the pit of his stomach when he saw Eir approaching with a familiar-looking globe in her right hand; in its centre a pulsating, bright-green substance.

“Poison?! That is how I am to end?” Loki sneered, almost chocking on the outrage that seared through him. Poison was for cowards and those who killed for sport or gold, those unworthy of the honour of executioner’s axe. “I demand to see Thor. _Now!_ ”

They all ignored his words, their faces grim and their hands merciless. Loki trashed in their grip, more a mindless beast than a man, his struggle fuelled by white-hot fury that coursed through his veins. Underneath the rage still remained fear; but no more than a single flame in a forest fire. Loki struggled, twisted his limbs and trashed against his captors, and though the fury doubled his strength, Loki had not enough of it.

Not nearly enough.

Eir had finished extracting the poison into a small injector, and she now stood a still, indecisive figure next to the altar, looking down at Loki with wide-eyes, and holding the injector with a trembling hand.

“Norns take you, woman! Get on with it!”

Volstagg’s voice, muffled with strain and tense with impatience, snapped Eir out of stillness and incited Loki’s desperate last-ditch effort to break free. He had almost succeeded. Hogun had to relinquish his grip on Loki’s left arm so he could hold steady Loki’s head; Loki had used the opening, and jerked his right hand out of Volstagg’s grip, and then he felt it – a tiny pinprick on the side of his neck.

Just a tiny pinprick; not much different from a bite of that annoying insect whose existence plagued Midgardians each summer, and yet it signalled an end to Loki’s existence; each beat of his heart now counting down to the imminent.

But was it not what life was; just a stretch of road that expanded between two fixed points – birth and death. It was somewhat ironic that Odin had snatched him from a death upon a cold rock, and now, centuries later, here he was, breathing his last breaths upon a cold slab of stone. On his son’s orders. 

Fury, and with it his will for further struggle, left Loki’s body in an instant; his limbs falling down on the cold stone like that of a puppet with its strings cut abruptly.

Loki stared at the stone ceiling, unseeing, his thoughts turning in a continuous loop of how ridiculously plain his death was. How inconsequential. Like he was no one of import; just a minor nuisance. He barely even registered how the restraining hold of strong fingers on him turned loose, then, after a few moments, disappeared entirely.

“Now what- what are we to do?”

That was Volstagg’s voice; Loki thought, he could not be entirely certain, the sound of it seemed distant, as if it came through miles and miles of space, not barely two short paces away.

“Wait. It will- it will not be long until it reaches his heart.” Eir said in hushed tones, but Loki heard the words anyway. Surprisingly, there was a tremble to her voice. Loki saw no reason for it – they were merely acting out their king’s orders, executing a criminal, were they not? 

Loki closed his eyes; an ugly, wretched sound tumbling out of his mouth. It might have been laughter. Just as easily it could have been a sob. Loki could feel the poison now – its slow crawl through his bloodstream; the cold numbness it left behind.

Loki wished it would speed its pace and reach his heart, dousing the bitter flame that still burned there.

His whole life, Loki has felt the shadow of Thor’s presence cover him; stifling and implacable, tainting his every achievement with the knowledge that no matter how hard he tries, he will never measure up to Thor’s shining perfection. 

Not nearly as long, but long enough, Thor has denied this to be true; talking of love and bonds of brotherhood, refusing to accept the blame for what he called the delusions of a bitter mind.

Loki loathed to admit it; even now, _especially_ now, but there have been moments – fleeting and tinged with regret – when he wished he could believe Thor’s words.

It was no victory, not with the poison inside his blood slowly taking his life, to finally have the undisputed proof of how little Thor thought of him. Oh, Loki knew Thor did not lie when he claimed he did not wish his death; he was equally as certain Thor had tried to intervene on Loki’s behalf.

Loki knew, past a shadow of a doubt, that Thor had done all he could to save Loki’s life.

And it was not the action that Loki resented; not the attempt, not even the failure. It was the _why_ of it. Once upon a time, Thor had given it a name; and even if he had not uttered that word in Loki’s presence in a long time; Loki could still see the echoes of it in the occasional glance and the curve of a smile. In the fleeting touch of fingers on the nape of Loki’s neck.

 _Love_.

Even the mere thought left the bitter, pungent taste in Loki’s mouth. And whom did Thor love? The brother he never truly had? The illusion made of Odin’s magic and lies?

The man whom Thor has never bothered to actually _see_?

If he had, he would know that Loki would rather have Thor kill him with his bare hands – slowly and painfully, than to suffer the humiliation and ignominy of the death Thor had sentenced him to.

The end was near; Loki knew it by the rapid decline in his heart rate. The sensation was not pleasant; he was dying after all, but there was no actual pain. It almost felt like trying to fight off sleep, but failing in the effort.

Loki’s breathing slowed, his heart now beating in a faint echo of its usual rhythm. Loki could feel himself falling into darkness, his thoughts scattering and drifting beyond his control. He thought of Frigga and the sadness in her eyes the last time he saw her alive; then of Odin, nor alive nor dead in the sleep that has claimed him. And, finally, of Thor, somewhere in the palace, surrounded by all its shine and splendour, but burdened with the knowledge of the proceedings in this secluded place.

Loki felt a smile tug at his lips; then, he thought no more.

 

****

 

Waking felt like wading through water – slow and exhausting.

More than once, Loki had lost the fight with the heavy weight that insisted on dragging his thoughts back into the blackness of the void. It called to him, tempting him with the offer of blissful nothingness. And Loki listened. Once, twice, three times, he had listened and ceased the struggle; but when the call came the fourth time, he ignored it, focusing his efforts on reaching the glimmer of light, flickering faintly somewhere on the outskirts of darkness that held him in its firm embrace.

Heaviness. The sensation of it flooded Loki’s senses – his thoughts, his limbs, even his eyelids felt like they weigh a ton. And through it came a sound – a soothing, rhythmical murmur; its nature familiar, but momentarily eluding recognition. 

Loki struggled to open his eyes, his face contorting into a pained grimace and his eyes snapping shut the moment they were met with the harsh light of day.

His next try was much more careful – Loki peered his eyes slowly open, cautious, until daylight no longer felt like an assailant, but an ally.

Loki blinked, craned his neck; frowned. He grabbed a fistful of the soft substance he was lying on, looking in wonder at it as it slipped through his fingers.

Sand. He was lying on sand, dirty-white of it stretching as far as he could see from his limited perspective. The next realization came on the heels of this one – sea waves. Sea waves crashing against the shore. _That_ was the sound he could hear. The only sound, with the exception of Loki’s own soft breathing, that disrupted the otherwise heavy silence of this place.

Loki blinked, then carefully pushed himself into a sitting position. It took some effort, but it was a minor one; Loki could feel the numbness slowly receding from his limbs.

And thoughts.

There was a low buzz on the outskirts of Loki’s mind. As Loki gingerly rose to his feet, its insistent noise grew stronger and sharper, until it finally crystalized into a single thought, stilling Loki’s lungs, his heart, his entire body.

He _lived_.

Loki remained motionless with shock one moment; void of all emotion, of all thought, the rhythmic crashing of waves sounding eerily similar to the heartbeat Loki could feel it in the hollow of his chest. Even if he should not.

He was alive. _Why_ was he still alive?

The stillness of his thoughts erupted into chaos of questions and wild speculations, and Loki’s body followed suit. He chose a direction randomly, not that he had much to choose from; with a steep cliff behind him, and the seemingly endless stretch of sea in front.

Loki made three steps before he stopped cold; all air gone from his lungs with another staggering revelation. Slowly, as in fear of breaking an illusion, Loki rose his hands, turning them over in front of his widening gaze.

He blinked; once, twice, three times. A sound of startled awe left Loki’s lips when he realized that he could do so a hundred, or even a thousand times, and the truth of his wrists, now free of silver ringlets keeping his magic bound, would not change.

Loki did not pause to think; the moment he found himself free, he drew on the magic inside. He felt it flow and spread through every cell of his body, and then outwards; searching for the closest tear in the space between the branches of the Great Tree-

-and finding none.

Apprehension blossomed low in the pit of his stomach; cold and heavy. Loki ignored its disquieting presence; focused his efforts and tried again, but with the same result. Then, after taking a shaky breath, he did it again.

Again, and again, and again.

Loki was now shivering, tendrils of panic coiling tight around his chest. His magic was free, intact, he could feel its power flooding his veins, and yet. Every one of his attempts had been thwarted by a power that went well beyond his, one that was familiar to him; after all, he had wielded Gungnir on two separate occasions. But there was another power entwined with Gungnir’s; almost hidden, but not quite.

And it bore the signature of chaos, and destructive, elemental power. 

Loki broke into a run. He ran mindlessly, gracelessly; his feet stumbling in the sand. There was no purpose to his actions; only panic, and dread.

And a slowly growing realization of what was to be his fate.

With his thoughts in near blind panic, Loki almost did not register the crates that were piled neatly on top of each other, only a few dozen feet away from the place where Loki had regained consciousness.

Loki’s run slowed into a walk, then it stopped altogether, two short paces from the pile of crates; his breathing shallow and quick. And not from exertion.

Loki hesitated only a moment before looking down, already knowing what he would see. Foreknowledge did not lessen the blow in the least; a pained noise tore from Loki’s throat when he recognized the faint outline of the mark Bifrost left in its wake. He wondered, briefly, if a closer inspection of the sand would reveal a presence of footsteps that were not his own. He suspected it would; he _knew_ it did not matter. Pieces of the puzzle that was Loki’s supposed death and a subsequent resurrection in this unknown place were slowly starting to fit into their rightful places; revealing a truth that sent a shiver of pure terror along the curve of Loki’s spine.

In a daze, Loki crossed the small space that separated him from the crates, his hand trembling as he reached after them. His grip was too tight, desperate; the wood creaking in protest as he tore the lid off the first crate.

Numbly, Loki stared at the content of the first crate, his throat growing dry as another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

It was clothes. Leather and silk, and the softest cotton; folded neatly and with care. Trousers and tunics, shirts and light breeches; a coat. Even undergarments. The majority of it colured a shade of green. _All_ of it Loki’s.

Loki rifled through the pieces of his wardrobe briefly, absentmindedly. It was delay; nothing more. A feeble attempt at steeling himself before he opened the second crate.

Impatience finally won over hesitation. Loki pushed the top crate to the side, but he had used too much force; it fell to the ground with a muted thud. It landed on its side, the clothes scattering all over the sand.

Loki looked down at the polished surface of the crate in front of him. He shut his eyes as a sensation washed over him; steadying and cool. Breathing in deeply, Loki realized, helplessly, that it was not the calmness of acceptance – not that, _never_ that – but the deceptive calm that preceded a storm. 

Loki opened his eyes. A heartbeat later his hand moved, his fingers steady and sure as they gently pried open the lid of the second crate.

The content of this crate was an assortment of fruits, both dried and fresh, and baked goods. There was even a small jar filled with bright-red jam; fitted snugly between a bowl of dried apricots and a plate of strawberry tarts.

With one last sweep of his eyes over the colourful content of the crate, Loki slowly lowered the lid. Then, he took a step back. Then another. And another one after that.

His knees gave in after the third step, and Loki found himself kneeling on the sand.

Loki inhaled deeply; the air felt like poison, burning inside his lungs. Then, throwing his head back, he _screamed_. 

 

****

 

Time had lost meaning.

Loki could have been lying on his back on the sand, and staring at the clear, blue sky for five minutes. Just as easily, it could have been five days.

He thought it was more than a day, at least. He remembered, vaguely, the exchange of day and night, but not much beyond that.

His throat still remained raw and tender, making each intake of breath feel like swallowing hot coal. Loki was also dimly aware of the scraped skin of his knuckles; the faint burn of it.

But those sensations were no more than minor nuisances; not nearly enough to even momentarily draw his thoughts away from the fate Thor had chosen for him.

A minor part of Loki’s mind felt a glimmer of admiration for Thor’s audacity; for his _guile_. But that sentiment was lost in the deep, churning sea of pure, sweltering _hate_. 

Loki could not recall himself hating Thor with so much intensity. Not even when Loki had finally realized how large a chasm stood between them. Not even when Thor had dragged him back to Asgard, chained and muzzled, and left him at Odin’s mercy.

It was like comparing a flicker of candlelight to the raging firestorms of Muspelheim.

The events of that last day in Asgard played out in front of Loki’s mind’s eye in a continuous loop; mocking him, taunting with the knowledge of how Thor had played him a fool not once, but two times in the space of one day. Then, to add an insult to injury, he had left Loki to wither away in this gilded cage, where the bars were not visible, but no less implacable for it.

But it was not only Loki who had been played a fool, but entire Nine Realms.

The trick Thor had played on them was truly a masterpiece, worthy only of the best. Loki would have felt obligated to tip his head in silent salute, were he not the one bearing the full brunt of it.

And so Loki remained as he was: a dead man to all but chosen few, lying on the sandy shore of his cage, while the storm of hate and helpless fury raged inside him; burning all else to cinders.

 

****

 

It was a dream.

Loki knew it, somehow. But it was a beautiful dream, and he felt weak, his chest one large open wound that ached for a soothing touch.

If only for a moment. Even if inside a dream.

“Loki.” She said, smiled; beautiful and gentle, and infinitely sad. “My son.”

Loki tried to speak, but found himself unable; his throat burned with raw emotion, his eyes wet.

 _Could_ one weep inside a dream?

Frigga did not seem to mind his silence, her smile softened further, her eyes holding Loki’s in what seemed a wordless caress.

Then, her posture straightened; her eyes taking on a resolute note as she extended her right hand to Loki.

“Take my hand.” Frigga said, voice soft, but brooking no argument.

She stood next to his feet, not far, just out his reach. Were he to take her hand, he would have had to move, to push himself off the ground.

To get up.

Loki’s eyes moved from Frigga’s eyes to her extended hand, then back up again. She did not say a word, simply made a small nod.

Loki exhaled shakily; then, his hand moved-

\- and he woke with a gasp.

Blinking away the last vestiges of his dream, Loki felt the cloud of hate and fury lift off his thoughts for the first time since he broke down that first day. He glanced, briefly, at his outstretched hand, still reaching after the vision from his dream.

He felt a stab in the middle of his chest; a different sensation from the banked fires of rage and hate Thor’s name evoked inside Loki. He swallowed, curled his hand into a fist; allowed it to fall onto the sand. His cheeks felt wet, but he ignored the sensation. He could not lose himself to emotion; not now. Not again. He needed to _think_.

Loki began with cataloguing the lingering ache inside his limbs and back; his face drawing into a tight grimace. His thoughts threatened to break out of their confines, and stray into the dark places inside Loki’s mind, but Loki held them back; concentrating instead on the low rumble inside his stomach.

The truth of what it meant almost made Loki laugh out loud. Hunger seemed almost painfully ordinary in the light of everything that has happened, but his body needed sustenance. The kind that rage and resentment could not provide. Loki’s gaze flicked toward the crates. It was fortunate for him that there existed an alternative.

Pushing himself to his feet, Loki walked toward the crates, and opened the top one. He hesitated a moment, his eyes sweeping over the tempting array of sweets before plucking one of cherry pies, and bringing it to his lips. He felt an almost childish urge to make an obscene gesture at the sky, in the off chance Heimdall was watching him, but fought it, biting instead into the pie.

After eating two more pies and wiping away any existing crumble from his lips, Loki had to admit it: even after a few days, Asgardian food was still better than any Loki has ever tried, but now was not the moment to indulge in the simple pleasures. He needed to act; to see the nature and limits of the cage Thor has built for him.

He needed purpose and a goal. Or that was what Loki chose to call it. The truth was far simpler, and infinitely more complicated than that – what Loki needed was not to break apart.

Picking up one of the shirts that were lying scattered on the sand, he tore it, creating a makeshift satchel out of fine silk. He filled it with dried fruits only; he did not know how long he would be gone from this place – a few hours, or days. In the third crate was more food, vegetables and meat; but Loki’s attention was fixed on the bottles. He pulled one filled with sparkling water. For a longer journey, it was not nearly enough. Fortunately, his magic was not utterly without use to him here.

Exhaling deeply, Loki took one last look of the fading mark under the crates; his stomach twisted briefly as acid rose inside his throat. Then he turned, and started walking.

He was climbing a narrow path that led from the sandy shore up the cliff that followed its entire line when he had felt it: a burst of power in the far distance behind his back.

Loki knew what it was; the knowledge lodging itself like a broken tip of a dagger beneath his breastbone. He went still and cold; his eyes squeezing shut as his right hand curled into fist. He stood like that a moment; then, he continued to climb.

He did not turn around.

 

****

 

Thor had outdone himself this time, Loki had to admit it.

His prison was bigger than Loki had expected it to be; in all truth, it went well beyond even the wildest of Loki’s speculations.

When Loki had finally finished climbing the path that lead him up the cliff that overlooked the shore, he found himself staring in wide-eyed wonder at the wide expanse of green that stretched as far as he could see.

And even further, where he could only glimpse darker shapes of what he suspected were treetops.

Loki had walked until the sun had set. Briefly, he had entertained the thought of using magic to hasten his journey; but thought better of it. He needed to know his destination to teleport to it, and, more importantly, he needed to learn all there was to this place. This prison. Everything had a weak spot; that much Loki has learned over time. But to utilize it, one needed to have its location known. That too, Loki understood.

Loki had been skilled at finding weak spots; even better at pushing at them until the rest, no matter how strong, had given way. Thor’s weak spot had been laughingly easy to locate. His emotions, his rage, his damnable arrogance. It had brought Loki great joy to have toyed with each of its incarnations.

Until Jotunheim. When everything had changed, never to be same again.

Finding a shelter under one of the trees, Loki cast his gaze at the sky. The stars were not familiar to him. It was somewhat disquieting a fact. But Heimdall’s power had limits, and that meant that Asgard was not just a glimmer of light impossibly far from this accursed place.

Loki had spent the night there, under a tree; in a pitiful sleep, plagued by a dream most of which he could not recall upon waking.

Most, but not all; the image of a bright-red cape slipping through his clutching fingers stayed with him even after he had opened his eyes; shivering and breathing raggedly.

A fortunate aspect of a foul mood, as Loki had learned that day, was that it gave speed to steps, while it soothed hunger. Both of which were most fortuitous considering the limited supply of dried fruits Loki has taken on this journey. 

The second day of his journey had ended very much similar to the first; with Loki leaning against a tree trunk, and staring at the flickering silver of the stars above him; breathing carefully as his thoughts manoeuvred around the knowledge that he had found not even a crack in the cage that held him captive.

He did not sleep that night.

Early on the third day, Loki had stumbled upon a creek, and decided to alter his course and follow it as it winded through a thickening forest. There was something deeply unsettling about the silence that ruled in the forest; even the almost cheerful murmur of the creek could not dispel its stifling presence.

It took him a moment to understand the reason; there were no animals here. Not even insects. There were trees and plants, and flowers; rocks and dirt and grass, now even a creek, but the only animal here was Loki.

He could not decide whether that was a good or a bad thing.

After a few hours of following the creek, a new sound, faintly familiar, joined that of water cascading over stones, getting louder the further Loki entered the forest.

It was perhaps an hour later, Loki could not tell for certain, that he had found himself standing amidst a forest clearing, staring, dumfounded, at the sigh in front of him.

At the sight of water falling from a high cliff, the sound of it almost deafening from this proximity after the all-encompassing silence of the forest.

Loki had moved before the thought of doing so had even registered inside his conscious mind; his steps guided by an echo of a feeling that stirred low in his chest, an ache that grew stronger the longer Loki looked at the falling water and the stones surrounding a small lake it created, which then turned into the creek that had led Loki to this place.

Loki took another step, his eyes catching sight of red at the far side of the clearing; bright red petals of wildflowers, standing out like a bloody mark among brown and green of the forest.

Recognition hit him like a blow to the chest; it sent Loki staggering back, and his lungs heaving for breath, fighting to catch air that was no longer there.

Loki knew this place, has seen it before. In another world, and another life. Knew the sensation of sinking into that water, the exhilarating coolness of it; knew how slippery and cold was the surface of those rocks underneath a naked back. He knew it all; just as he knew there was a cave hidden behind the waterfall, not large, but enough for two men – or have they been boys still; back then, in that other life? – to cross the line from brothers to lovers.

Memories flooded Loki’s thoughts, his senses; unstoppable and merciless once they broke through the dam Loki had so painstakingly built around them.

Loki remembered his own clumsy eagerness, and the unusual, almost foreign uncertainty in the slow, reverent touch of Thor’s trembling fingers. He recalled the strain, the heated urgency of Thor’s voice as he whispered Loki’s name; then the broken, helpless sound of the word ‘brother’ falling from Thor’s lips.

He remembered, clearly, the ecstasy of their first joining, both pain and pleasure of it. Then, the feel of Thor’s hands wrapped tightly around him, and the steady beat of his heart underneath Loki’s cheek; the peace of that moment, the _rightness_ of it. 

Loki was lost to the memories, defenceless against their assault; a still, silent figure, with only a faint echo of a heartbeat to remind him that he yet lived.

He did not move for a long time.

 

****

 

Loki’s return to the shore, his steps slow and measured, was marked by two discoveries.

First was the grudging admittance that this prison has been truly masterfully engineered. The amount of detail, the structure, and the sheer expanse of it; it must have taken Thor a large amount of concentration, deliberation and patience to have had it made so meticulously. Even with Gungnir’s aid.

 _Infinitely_ more than Loki has ever credited him with.

The second discovery was even more unsettling. No less true for it, though.

There was no escape from this place. 

 

****

 

Glancing at the grey sky, Loki pressed his lips tightly together, huddling deeper under the invisible barrier that protected him from the harsh wind and the rain that poured with an almost vindictive force on the ground all around Loki.

Loki loathed using his magic for something as plain as finding shelter from the storm, but the storm had come quite literally out of the blue; from one moment to the next, the sky changed from clear blue to leaden-grey, giving Loki just enough time to cast the spell before it unleashed its fury upon the ground.

Loki wondered, with more annoyance than actual curiosity, was this change in weather intentional on Thor’s part, or a reflection of his current mood as an unfortunate side-effect of his inherent elemental magic entwining with Gungnir’s. 

The thought of suffering through _this_ every time someone roused Thor’s temper, did not sit well with Loki. But more importantly, it made evident that the matter of Loki’s living conditions needed urgent attention.

If, indeed, Loki was the only animal in this place, he needed not live like one.

And Loki intended to live through this. Thor was somewhere out there, out of Loki’s reach, ruling Asgard as Loki wasted his days here. But only for now. Somehow, there would come the day when they would face each other once again. Loki believed it would happen; he needed to believe it would. It was the only barrier that lay between him and madness. 

Loki could build a sort of shelter for himself; he had been toying with the idea for days, in between exploring his cage and doing absolutely nothing, while his thoughts walked the fine line between utter boredom and crushing despair. He could do so, there was wood here, and stone, but magic could accomplish only so much. Loki could make himself a passable hut, but for anything more ambitious he needed materials he could not create out of thin air, and tools, and-

Loki’s thoughts skittered to a halt; a snippet of the last conversation he had had with Thor blazing in front of his mind’s eye.

_“You could have at least provided me with a chair.”_

_“You could have asked for one.”_

It could not possibly be that simple, could it?

And yet.

When the sky had cleared, Loki walked over to the Bifrost site on the beach, craning his head to face the sky.

“Heimdall.” Loki called, his voice hoarse from disuse; a thin stretch of a smile on his lips. “Tell your master that if he does not wish me to perish from boredom, he ought to at least supply me with something to read and write.”

Loki said nothing else, merely turned and walked away. Two days later, on the fourth day after the last delivery, he returned.

At first, Loki cold not believe his eyes. Then, he thought about hidden traps, but dismissed those thoughts as ridiculous – what possible motivation for deception and games Thor could have had now? He could not have changed that much.

Still, when he had lifted the lid off the last crate, Loki held his breath, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt foolish, like a boy who was unwrapping a present but feared having his hopes crushed.

Once the lid was off, Loki merely stared at the content of the crate. Then, after a moment, a sound that Loki did not recognize at first, so foreign it was to his ears, tumbled out of his mouth; loud and startled.

It took Loki a while to call it by its proper name; laughter.

 

****

 

The books were only the beginning.

At first, Loki had feared that there was a limit to Thor’s generosity, but each of the supplies Loki had demanded, had been delivered to him four days after, with his usual supply of fresh food and clothes.

Soon, Loki had stopped reciting his demands to the sky, and opted for making a list, and placing it into one of the empty crates.

Time slowly trickled away, and while this new twist in his fate did not alter the fact that he was still Thor’s prisoner, he now had a purpose, and a goal.

To shape this prison into something of _his_ , while he waited for the day of his and Thor’s reckoning.

 

****

It took Loki an entire year to build himself a house to suit his needs.

Its walls were solid stone, and its interior made of finest oak. It could not compete with the golden splendour of Asgard, barely fit for one of its stables, but when Loki had taken his first walk through its rooms, a strange sensation detangled itself inside his chest. It was not happiness, Loki doubted anything save having Thor within strangling distance could bring him that elusive feeling of happiness, nor was it truly satisfaction, but for a moment Loki felt, oddly, at peace.

It lasted no more than a moment; shattered with the knowledge that he, who would have ruled realms, was now reduced to shaping wood and stone, like a simple carpenter.

He had stormed out of the house, and had not returned for an entire week. Driven by rage stronger than he had felt in months, he had wandered the outskirts of his cage, but the memory of that moment of peace remained; buried deep underneath the rage and resentment, but there still.

 

****

 

When he had first requested books on magic, Loki had firmly believed he would not receive them.

He had been mistaken.

He had been equally as mistaken when he had demanded magical and alchemical supplies.

It had taken Loki only three months to finish building his laboratory.

Practice, as they tended to claim on Midgard, indeed made perfect.

 

****

 

The beginning of his fourth year in his cage had made apparent the need that has been churning for months inside Loki.

It has been a while since Loki had succumbed to despair or rage. Loki could not quite understand it, but, somehow, it has become easier for him to keep his mind from straying into places where his demons lurked. But Loki was aware of other roads that led to madness; and he knew, with a tight coil of dread inside his chest, that he was nearing one with each passing day.

Reading out loud no longer helped, and having an illusion keep him company was a poorly disguised form of talking to himself.

He needed someone to walk alongside him, needed another voice to join his.

Loki knew that Thor would never grant him a companion. And if Loki wanted to be honest with himself, which happened rarely, and only in those moments in the dark of night, when his mind straddled the line between wakefulness and sleep, there was only one face he saw when he entertained the idea of sharing this cage with another.

Loki never allowed himself to recall those moments in the light of day; there was something far, _far_ more dangerous than madness on the end of that particular road. 

The answer to Loki’s predicament came in the form of memory. The memory was not pleasant in the least. It meant bruises, and crawling up the stairs of a room on Midgard. It meant defeat. But it also meant hours spent in wait, rifling through possessions of a particularly annoying mortal. 

When it had first occurred to him, Loki had dismissed it as ludicrous.

But it had come to him again, and again, and again, like the buzz of an annoying insect, until one day he could no longer ignore it.

Early next day, Loki stood indecisive over the crates, frowning at the folded piece of paper in his hand.

Still, when Loki had left the shore, with the first shadows of the afternoon hanging over sand, his hands were empty.

 

****

 

Loki had made it a matter of pride to have finished assembling the suit in the shortest possible time interval.

A part of Loki was faintly amused by the pettiness of that sentiment; as if it mattered anything in this place, years and years after Stark’s death.

And yet, when Loki had put the last piece together, and took a step back to inspect his creation, there was a wide grin on his face.

The suit was made of lighter, and more durable metal than any of the Stark’s suits have been. That too made Loki feel a sort of spiteful glee, even if he knew how unfounded it was.

But currently it stood motionless in front of Loki, waiting for the last thing that needed to be done.

Inhaling deeply, Loki pressed the palm of his right hand against the round crystal lodged in the middle of the suit’s chest. Green light blazed around Loki’s splayed fingers, growing stronger and stronger, until, after a few moments, it fizzled, and faded.

A bit unsteady, Loki moved his hand; his throat tight with anticipation.

Nothing happened at first; then, a flash of green flickered behind the narrow slits on the suit’s head, and the suit came alive with a low hum. Loki released a deep, careful breath, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

“State my purpose.” The suit spoke, its voice coming out without inflection, utterly flat.

Loki opened his mouth, found himself unable to utter a single word; his heart beat fast, too fast.

Loki knew how much solitude had gnawed on him, chipping away bits of his sanity day by day. But it was not until now, when the suit spoke for the first time, that he understood just how much he had missed another’s presence.

How close he had been to losing himself to madness.

“You are here to keep me company.” Loki said in a voice that sounded foreign to him; it shook and strained, heavy with an emotion that went beyond simple relief.

The suit did not react. Then, a moment after: “Company?”

“Yes.” Loki said slowly, his voice steadier now. But his chest still felt tight, too tight; unwinding ever so slowly. Once upon a time, they have called him Silvertongue, and now, here he was, close to breaking for the simple pleasure of speaking to a scrap of metal, powered by Loki’s own magic. “I am your master.”

Another moment, a slight tilt of the suit’s head. “Master?”

“Yes.” Loki said, his mouth splitting into a huge grin. He could not see his face but he suspected there had to be an edge of hysteria to it; an echo of the tension inside him. “I am Loki.”

The suit seemed as if it was considering Loki’s words.

“Loki.” It repeated. “And how may I serve you, Master?”

Loki’s breath left his lips as a sigh of disappointment at the return of the suit’s flat tones. He knew it was going to take some time before the suit developed upon the simple characteristics it operated on now.

Exhaling deeply, Loki gathered the loose treads of his composure. 

“You may clear this mess.” He commanded, gesturing toward the floor, and the heap of wires, scrapes of metal and plastic there. Loki was fairly certain he would have done a better and quicker job of it were he to do so alone, but the suit needed to engage in an activity to learn. This was a good a start as any.

Loki was almost at the door of his laboratory when he was stopped by an inquiry, stated in something that was almost, but not quite, curiosity.

“And how am I to be called, Master?”

Loki threw a glance at the suit over his shoulders, his eyes sweeping over the gold and red of its casing. He did not need to think on it, there could have been only one answer to that question.

“Stark.” Loki said, grinning widely.

 

****

 

The murmur of the sea still sounded exactly the same as it had when Loki had first opened his eyes in this place.

After fifteen years, it was the only thing that remained intact here. All else bore the mark of change. Of Loki’s presence. There was now even a small storage unit next to the Bifrost site on the shore. _That_ was one of Loki’s least favourite enterprises; sand was not what one would call a favourable surface to build on.

“Master?”

Loki’s eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, a weary sigh leaving his lips.

“I did not call upon you, Stark.” He said curtly, without taking his eyes off the sea. He doubted either his words or his tone would have desired effect on Stark; they rarely did, lately.

“May I assist you in some way?”

Loki kept his silence, staring at the infinite blue expanse in front of him. He had tried, once, to see how far into it he would be allowed to go. He had made it until he was up to his waist in water. What had happened after, Loki still did not know. There had been a flash of excruciating pain, then nothing. When Loki had regained consciousness, he found himself lying on the shore, his mouth tasting like bile, and every cell in his body hurting. And Stark hovering over him in a fit of hysterics.

Needless to say, Loki has never again even thought of trying his luck with the sea.

“I could bring you refreshments.” Stark tried, sounding eager. “Master?”

After he had constructed, Stark, Loki has not tampered with his development, save the occasional restoring of energy that powered him. He had been tempted, on more than one occasion; when it had become apparent that Stark’s personality equalled that of an overbearing, and somewhat oblivious caregiver. And all his attention was fixated on Loki.

“We have already had this conversation, Stark.” Loki gave his tone a sharper note; his voice matching his expression as he turned toward Stark. Over the course of years, Loki had stopped thinking of the suit as ‘the suit’ or even ‘it’. He was simply Stark. “You come when you are called, not before.” It was a foolish notion, and a mere trick of his mind; but sometimes Loki could even believe to have seen a glimmer of an emotion on Stark’s metallic face. Like now, a brief flash of hurt that merged quickly with what was Stark’s default state: near constant apprehension and eagerness to please. “And you go when you are commanded to do so.”

“If I depart, you will remain alone here.” Stark stated, the concern in his voice taking on a slightly panicked note.

Loki glanced away, pressed his lips tightly together, and merely breathed for a few moments. He knew he could alter Stark’s programming; to start anew, but the thought seemed wrong, almost like putting an end to his life. 

“And why would that be a problem?” Loki asked, softly. He did not say ‘I am always alone’, but the knowledge was there, trapped in the cage beneath his ribs; a heavy, constant pressure. He had Stark, yes; and he had memories haunting him, but, in the end, he was alone. Some days that knowledge did not hurt as much. This was not one of those days. 

“You seem ill, Master.” Stark offered. “Afflicted by some malady. It is my duty to aid you.”

A pressure rose in Loki’s throat; a laughter or something else, he could not be certain. Loki kept it locked inside, breathed around it, until it disappeared, and he could once again speak.

“I am feeling fine, Stark. There is only one matter that ails me, and that is your constant disobedience.”

Stark seemed as if trying to fold in on itself, but did not move from where he stood. Loki sighed, returned his gaze to the sea. He would wander off, eventually. Ignoring him has always worked better than any other tactics.

The hum of the sea had an almost hypnotic quality to it; without noticing Loki found himself breathing in sync with it. But his thoughts could not be calmed by the lull of the sea, they swirled inside Loki’s skull; relentless. Flicking his gaze toward the well-known mark, only a few feet off where Loki stood, Loki felt his body growing tense. The crates were still appearing, every fourth day; supplying him with food and clothes that he no longer needed. Fifteen years in this prison, and Loki knew that if the crates would to cease coming, barring a fatal accident or illness, he would have died here of old age, not hunger.

The thought slithered like a touch of icy fingers down his spine; Loki’s cage, no matter what Loki has done to it; no matter how much Loki ignored its invisible bars, was still a cage.

At times, Loki could even forget the truth of it. Driving his body and mind to action, to exhaustion, he could pretend, for a while, that it was his will, not Thor’s, keeping him here.

Perhaps Stark was correct. Perhaps Loki was, indeed, suffering from a malady. He certainly has not been feeling well lately; his every breath an echo of the ache that has burrowed inside his chest, refusing to leave, or even lessen its incessant pressure.

Pretending it did not exist had brought him nothing. Neither had feigning ignorance of its true nature. Loki _knew_ what it was; what name it answered to.

Loneliness.

But it was a different kind of loneliness than the one that had resulted in Stark’s creation. No. This ache, this wretched longing, the entirety of it, was focused on only one person; on one name.

_Thor._

 

****

 

Since that first time, Loki has not returned to this place.

He had harnessed its endless supply of water, but has done it from afar, avoiding to get nearer than it had been absolutely necessary.

He never wanted to come here again; never planned on it. And yet here he was, his steps slow and cautious on the mossy ground, his fingertips wet from touching the rocks.

Nothing has changed here; from the shape of the rocks, the sound of the waterfall, or the faint scent of the wildflowers. It was almost as if time itself, much as Loki, has been avoiding this place.

Loki wondered, sometimes, what had prompted Thor to give this part of Loki’s prison this precise shape. Had it been cruelty, sentimentality, or, perhaps, Thor has forgotten the significance of this place, and had simply used a snapshot of a memory, without any meaning at all.

Loki shut his eyes; air leaving his throat on a ragged exhale.

It _hurt_ to be here; down to the very marrow of his bones. He wished – helplessly, hopelessly – that he could have forgotten the weight of Thor’s body on his, or the tiny, fractured gasp that tore from his mouth when Loki’s body finally gave way, letting Thor inside.

Even more so, Loki wished it had never happened. Cursed his own greedy nature; its pathetic, all-consuming need to bind Thor to him. Loathed the weakness that had forced the word ‘yes’ out of his mouth when Thor had whispered ‘please’.

Loki’s entire body shuddered. A snarl, not unlike that of a wounded beast left his mouth as his eyes snapped open. He took two staggering steps back. His chest ached; splintering into tiny fragments with each jagged breath.

Loki tried to think, found that he could not. His mind was in disarray, braking on the edges; only one thought still remained whole.

Run.

Loki made one more step back before his entire form blazed with green light.

He materialized, somehow, in the very place he had intended. He swayed, staggered, fell on the ground; his knees hitting the wood of his sitting chamber.

Loki remained on the floor for a moment. With his is head hung low, he drew panting breaths; his heart hammering wildly in the hollow of his chest. He was breaking apart; he knew it, could feel the already frayed threads of his control give way under the relentless pressure inside him.

He needed to do something, _anything_ , to relieve it, and there was only one thing that occurred to him.

Loki pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, his entire body shaking. There was not a sliver of grace to his frantic movements as he hurried from one chamber to another, until he reached his destination.

His shaking fingers fumbled with the latch on the liquor cabinet. He tried once, twice to open it; then simply gave up, ripping the wood of its hinges, and throwing it mindlessly on the ground.

It fell on the ground with a loud clatter, but Loki barely heard it over the rush of blood in his ears. His eyes swept over the array of bottles he had accumulated over the years, courtesy of Thor: wine, mead, beer, and exotic drinks names of which Loki could not recall in that moment.

Loki grabbed one of the bottles at random, opened it, and drunk.

 

****

 

Consciousness appeared slowly, and, with it, pain.

Loki groaned; his mouth tasted vile, and his head felt like a pincushion for thousand sharp, flaming needles.

He cautiously peered his eyes open, distantly aware that slow was the right course of action now. But, despite his caution, the first sliver of daylight seared through Loki’s skull, coaxing another groan from his mouth, as his stomach twisted with nausea. 

Deciding against trying to open his eyes for a time, or moving in general; Loki concentrated on nothing but the next intake of breath, lying utterly still and waiting for the pain in his head to subside.

Loki needed not guess where he was; the coarse substance underneath his palms and the sound of waves crashing against land (deafening in his current state) were obvious clues.

Loki was beginning to _truly_ loathe this place.

Slowly, one deep breath after another, the pain in Loki’s head was starting to lessen, making room for humiliation.

Memories of yesterday’s events returned to Loki in a series of disconnected images; his ill-advised visit to the waterfall, the embarrassment of his breakdown, and every foolish, pathetic thing that had come after.

Loki felt ill, and it had nothing with the amount of alcohol he had consumed.

His only, feeble as it was, comfort came from the knowledge that no one would ever know what a pathetic fool Loki had been. Even if Heimdall-

Loki’s entire body went still and cold as another of yesterday’s events assembled itself in front of his mind’s eye; scrap of paper crumpled inside tightly closed fist, drunken laughter as knees hit the sand, and, finally, hollow thunk of wood hitting against wood.

Loki moved without thought, panic overriding pain and nausea. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his knees, swallowing against the bile that rose inside his throat; his frantic gaze scanning the shore in search of the familiar sight of wooden crates, and finding only sand.

“ _No_.” Loki whispered, wide-eyed and helpless, his heart sinking in his chest. Then, as if repetition would change the truth of what he had done, he heard himself say it again; low and broken. “No.”

 

****

 

In his first years in this place, Loki had often imagined how his encounter with Thor would have played out.

One of his favourite fantasies had included Loki’s fingers wrapped tightly around Thor’s neck, as light slowly dimmed from his eyes. There have been other scenarios, too; painted read, and loud with screams of pain. But all those fantasies have faded with time, and the gradual shift of Loki’s feelings from hate toward longing. After it occurred, Loki had carefully avoided allowing his thoughts to stray into that territory.

And so, Loki was wholly unprepared for the reality of Thor standing at the foot of the narrow path that led toward Loki’s house, with Stark shifting nervously on his feet next to him, looking as if he were about to shut down from sheer panic.

Loki stopped dead in his tracks, his entire body going deathly still. Thor’s presence, overwhelming as it were in normal circumstances, now, after years of living in isolation, it was almost too much for Loki to bear. He felt disconnected from himself, his thoughts scattering into all directions; aware of nothing but the clear blue of Thor’s eyes.

Loki started walking without realizing it; his eyes locked on Thor’s. It felt like his body was not his own, like it moved solely because of the gravitational pull that existed between their bodies. He stopped two paces from Thor; trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

Trying, but failing miserably. Loki’s mind remained borderline useless, caught as it were in the shock of having Thor stand here; almost within Loki’s reach. 

“Master, we appear to have a visitor.” Stark announced, the level of apprehension in his voice reaching the edge of terror. “Were you be needing my assistance?”

Thor’s eyebrows rose minutely, but his eyes did not move from Loki’s. Try as he might, Loki could not read their expression past calm composure.

“It is fine, Stark.” Loki heard himself say, his voice conveying steadiness he did not feel. Not that he knew what the feeling building inside his chest was. It felt strangely light. “I am not in any danger.”

“Master, are-”

“Leave us, Stark, or I will shut you down.” Loki commanded, reluctantly taking his eyes off Thor’s so he could glare at Stark. Then, he glanced back at Thor, arching an eyebrow. “I am not, am I?”

The corner of Thor’s mouth twitched; as if he was trying to contain a smile.

“Your master is safe from me.” Thor said softly, talking to Stark, but keeping his eyes fixed on Loki’s. The sound of Thor’s voice burrowed under Loki’s skin, sending a jolt of thrill along his nerve endings. “I give you my word.”

Surprisingly, Stark obeyed. A small part of Loki felt faintly annoyed at how readily Stark had listened to Thor as he watched him disappear up the cobbled path, stopping only twice to gaze back. Loki had to ask at least three times, then demand and threaten to get Stark to listen to him.

“You named it Stark?” Thor queried, sounding amused.

“It seemed fitting.” Loki answered in the same light tone. Distantly, Loki was aware how bizarre this entire exchange was; as if they were two casual acquaintances, meeting by chance on the street. Not a captive and his jailor, with centuries’ worth of memories between them.

“I don’t think Stark would have approved.”

“Probably, but not at first.” Loki said with a casual half-shrug. “First, he would have been annoyingly smug about it.”

Thor’s mouth twitched again; once, twice, and Loki found himself, inexplicably, holding his breath. Then, it happened: Thor’s lips stretched into a smile, and that airy, light feeling inside Loki’s chest expanded further.

“You are probably right. That does sound like Stark.” Thor agreed with a light chuckle. Then, suddenly, he moved forward, his fingers sliding into the loose curls on the nape of Loki’s neck. “You cut your hair.”

Loki forced himself to stand very, very still; refusing to obey either of two impulses that were waging war inside his chest.

“Stark did it.” Loki said, his voice coming out less steady than Loki would have preferred. He was viscerally aware of Thor’s fingers; so close to his neck, but not quite touching it. “It has grown too long. It was a nuisance.”

“I like it.” Thor said, smiling softly. He was looking at Loki with fond gaze, his fingers still tangled in Loki’s hair. “It suits you.”

And, suddenly, Loki could not stand it anymore. Could not stand the painful clench of his heart at having Thor so close. He took a step back, masking his discomfort with a courteous smile.

“Would you like a drink, Thor?” Loki heard himself ask, desperate to take control of himself. And then, hopefully, this entire encounter.

There was a crease in Thor’s brow that might have been disappointment or frustration, but it smoothed before Loki could decide which.

“Yes, I think I would enjoy a drink.” Thor said, levelly, with only the barest hint of tension entering his voice.

Drink, and then a conversation, Loki thought as he turned on his heel. They were fifteen years overdue for one.

Perhaps even longer than that. _Centuries_ longer.

 

****

 

Loki’s fingers trebled faintly as he poured wine into his cup. Not all of the wine ended in the cup, and Loki found himself staring at the deep-red droplets staining the otherwise meticulous surface of the small, round oaken table; trying to breathe but feeling like there was simply not enough air for it.

_What, in Norns’s name, was this new madness?_

Finally, after a few more attempts, Loki drew a deep, steadying breath, carefully placing both the cup and the bottle down on the table.

Thor has been here for hours, sitting on Loki’s sofa, talking with Loki about pedestrian, inconsequential things; acting as if there was no other place he would have rather been in that moment, acting as if he _belonged_ there. And Loki did nothing to stop the charade; too weak, too pathetic to deny himself the pleasure of listening to the sound of Thor’s voice.

But Thor did not belong here. Even in his simple clothing, with not a trace of steel on him, Thor made this place seem small and plain; unworthy of his presence.

It was only fitting, Loki thought bitterly, Thor ruled over Asgard, and this was no more than a fancy cell.

And it was high time they acknowledged that truth. 

“Why are you here?” Loki asked after he turned. He kept his voice low, and carefully controlled, but the shock of Thor’s sudden appearance had worn off, and Loki was aware of the storm that was starting to brew inside his chest.

Thor blinked. Then, slowly, he placed his cup with mead down on the ground. When he stood up, there was no notable difference on his face, but Loki knew Thor. He could see the faint stiffness in his posture, the tense set of his shoulders; this was Thor preparing for battle.

“You asked for me.” Thor answered simply.

Loki did not miss Thor’s deliberate phrasing. It made him think of a scrap of paper; of clumsy, drunk fingers writing Thor’s name on it. The memory made his stomach twist with embarrassment and annoyance, even more so when he felt his cheeks flush.

“That- that was a mistake.” Loki said, forcing his eyes not to move from Thor’s. It was not an easy task, he had almost forgotten what it had meant to have Thor’s undivided attention focused solely on him. Especially when the memories of his pathetic weakness were still too fresh, far too close to surface of his skin, making him feel vulnerable and exposed.

Thor’s lips curved minutely; forming a shadow of a smile. His eyes still remained calm, and infuriatingly difficult to read.

“Oh. But since I am already here, would you walk with me?”

Loki found himself not really surprised when, in accordance to the folly of his recent behaviour, he opened his mouth, and said: “Yes.” 

Thor did not bother with putting on his cloak when they exited Loki’s house. Not that he needed to bother; despite the lengthening shadows of the evening, the air outside was pleasantly warm. In fact, despite an occasional rather violent storm, the weather in this place seemed an everlasting spring.

They did not speak, their shoulders almost touching as they walked along the cobbled path that led from Loki’s house to the orchard.

Loki allowed Thor to take the lead, content with silence, but aware that it would not hold, not for long; the very air between them seemed charged, on the edge of exploding.

They have almost made it to the orchard when a thought occurred to Loki, erasing all others, and chilling Loki down to the marrow of his bones. Thor seemed very much at ease in this place, almost like it was _familiar_ to him.

Loki did not think, he merely acted, driven by fury that blazed within his chest; sudden and terrifying. He stopped dead in his tracks, his fingers wrapping around Thor’s wrist with bruising strength.

“Have you been watching me?” Loki hissed, the warning in his voice clear and sharp, like the edge of a knife.

Surprise flashed in Thor’s eyes. Loki was aware, dimly, that it was surprise that halted Thor’s steps, not Loki’s grip on Thor’s wrist. He knew that Thor could break out of his grip whenever he so chose.

“No, I have not.” Thor answered, his voice calm and steady. His eyes were locked on Loki’s unflinchingly. Then, after a moment, Thor’s expression shifted; a heavy tangle of sorrow, regret and longing etched itself onto every feature of Thor’s face. “I was content to know you live.”

Loki blinked, tried to speak, but found his throat closed, burning with raw emotion. A beat after, he became aware that he was still clutching Thor’s wrist; his fingers wrapped around warm skin instead of usual cold steel. He snatched his hand back as if burned.

“Yes, I still live.” Loki sneered, seeking shelter in the bitterness of resentment from the way his body responded to having touched Thor: with racing heartbeat and shortness of breath. “In this pretty cage you have made me. I hope you have not come expecting gratitude.”

Thor regarded Loki silently; his smile tinged with bitterness and sorrow in equal measure.

“You have lied to me, manipulated me, attempted to take my life and betrayed me on more than one occasion, and yet you have hurt me the most when you made me believe you were dead.”

Loki blinked, swallowed; his throat felt raw and aching, almost as much as his chest did. He believed Thor. Not because this was Thor speaking, Thor who was honest and honourable, but because he suddenly saw it clearly. They were both caught in the trap Odin had long ago built for them. Thor, who could not let go of the illusion of their false brotherhood. And Loki, who could not disentangle hate from love.

They should have been enemies, and enemies alone. They were born to be enemies.

“You should leave.” Loki whispered; his voice thin and strained. His chest ached with Thor’s proximity; it was far too cruel of Thor to stand there, barely a step away, reminding Loki of all he could not have.

“You keep telling me to leave.” Thor said, his voice unusually sombre. “That had been the last thing you asked of me that day in your cell. Do you remember?”

Loki remembered. Remembered what Thor had said, and the look in his eyes when he had left.

“Was then when you decided to break your word to Freya?” Loki asked, but he already knew the answer. He knew it. Just as he knew that the truth could damn them both.

Thor’s face contorted into a pained grimace.

“I have convinced myself that I will not interfere. That I will do my duty and protect the realms as I have sworn to do.” Thor’s voice was steady, but raw with hurt. Like the words were coming from a place inside him that was built solely from it. “And then I saw you- you had the same expression in your eyes as when you allowed yourself to fall into abyss. And I couldn’t.”

“I hated you.” Loki heard himself say; the truth drawn from him without his desire and beyond his control. It took almost all his strength to hold Thor’s gaze. “I could have torn you to pieces and bathe in your blood for what you have done to me. And still I would not have felt satisfied.”

Thor did not seem surprised. “And now? Do you still feel the same?”

“I have not forgiven you.” Loki answered. It was the truth. Only not the entirety of it. “But you are not seeking forgiveness, are you, Thor?”

Thor remained silent. Not that Loki expected him to answer; they both knew already what the answer was.

“This is not a place for the king of Asgard, Thor.” Loki said; suddenly feeling weary beyond measure. A foolish thought came to him; a desire to sleep long enough for entire universe to change once he had woken up. Entire universe, or he.

“Asgard can manage by itself.” Thor said, rising his voice for the first time since his arrival, his eyes flashing with anger; but it was a faint echo of the temper that could summon a devastating storm in between two beats of a heart. A brief moment later, Thor’s eyes softened, making him seem younger, almost vulnerable. “I am not here as king of Asgard.”

It was like walking toward the edge of a cliff, Loki knew it, and yet. “Then who are you?”

“Your brother.” Thor said simply, and before Loki could even open his mouth to rebuke that statement, Thor continued, his eyes hard as steel, daring Loki to try and argue. “We have been many things, Loki, but we have always been brothers before all else.”

“And that is why I am to waste away in this cage?” Loki asked, his lips curving into a parody of a smile. “This is a very lovely cage, Thor, but still a cage.”

Thor looked pained, as if he was waging a heavy battle with himself; his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his hand curled into fists by his sides. It lasted no more than a moment.

“No.” Thor said, his voice clear and steady. His eyes, locked on Loki’s, looked sad for a sliver of a moment. “I cannot keep you caged here, not even to save you from yourself.”

Loki merely stared at Thor, unable to grasp the meaning behind his words, his eyes searching for a sign of a trap or a test on Thor’s face, but finding it earnest, open. _Honest_.

“Heimdall has my orders. If you wish to leave, call on him.”

Loki felt like he had been struck by lightning. He could not think; could not understand what was happening. Nothing made sense. Why would Thor do this? He was risking exposing what he had done.

The fool was playing with his honour, with his reputation. Possibly even his life.

And still, Thor was not done.

“You may leave, if that is your desire, but I am asking you to stay.” Thor said softly, looking uncertain and hopeful at the same time.

Laughter, loud and shrill left Loki’s mouth.

“Why would I stay?” Loki asked, his voice breaking on the edges. He felt unmoored; like every truth of his life was now lying on the ground; shattered to pieces by Thor’s words. And he would not stop shivering.

Loki saw Thor move, saw it before he felt fingers curl around his neck, and fit against his waist. Saw it, and did nothing to stop it from happening.

Thor smiled, and the warmth of it felt like a knife searing through Loki’s heart.

“Because of me.” Thor said, his thumb moving in a gentle caress along the line of Loki’s jaw. “Because of this.”

Ever so slowly, Thor dipped his head, bringing their lips together. The kiss was a gentle, almost chaste brush of lips against lips, over in a moment; but to Loki it felt like a brand.

“You know _who_ I am.” Loki said, sounding wrecked. Thor was a fool. He had handed Loki a dagger, and was now offering him his exposed back as well.

The smile on Thor’s face was both sad, and full of warmth. It reminded Loki of Frigga.

“Yes, I do.” Thor said, solemnly, looking at Loki with open, honest gaze.

There was still space between their bodies, not much of it, just enough. And it was Loki’s choice what do with it.

Keeping his eyes locked on Thor’s, he lifted his right hand, splaying his fingers over Thor’s heart. He could feel its strong beat underneath.

Thor remained silent, utterly still, but there was something almost painfully hopeful in his eyes now.

“Fool.” Loki sighed, and stepped forward.


End file.
